Solstice
by ForeheadGoggles
Summary: Every year, the General destroyed him.


Authors Note: This is something I've wanted to write for quite some time. Now I've finally gotten around to it… I found that I enjoy writing in the second person. I've also found that writing this while listening to Trans-Siberian Orchestra achieves a new level of awesome.

Warnings: Blood, violence, implied yaoi/shonen-ai, human names, you know. The usual.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. If I did, the copyright wouldn't be so heavy on the new World episodes. Plus, this might actually happen. Heh. Not too likely.

Solstice

The date is December 20th. You're terrified.

You send Lithuania away for his yearly two week break, weaving some half-believable lie about the new year.

You don't want him to see what's about to happen here.

Toris flashes you a rare genuine smile as he hurries out into the crisp sunlight. He's radiant with the dust motes glittering around his silky brown hair, and you tell him so, delighting in his blush. Lithuania begins his journey back to Poland with his brothers, and you can hear their carefree laughter through the open window.

You rush over to close it, bolting it shut and checking it twice. The rest of the windows and doors receive similar treatment.

Your hands are shaking too hard to lock the front door, so you push a bookcase to block it. You know it's useless, but you trick your subconscious into thinking it isn't, and manage to warm a bowl of soup without dropping anything. You choke it down still walking, knowing that standing still is emotional suicide.

You sing every song you can remember and hold one-sided conversations with your absent Baltics. Anything to fill up the yawning abyss of time that stands between you and _him_. You're still moving, piling fuel on the fires until you're sweating under your scarf. A wary glance at the clock tells you there are only four hours until midnight. Only four hours until _he_ comes back.

You stumble into your bedroom closet and take down a heavy long sword from the top shelf. You destroy another precious hour honing the blade to needle sharpness. Another useless task.

There are only three hours left, and you reluctantly hang your coat by the door, stuffing your gloves into the pockets. Under them, your fingers are long and slightly crooked from being broken and poorly healed. The clock ticks ominously and desperate, you reach for the vodka that's always close at hand.

You regret the decision the moment the glass touches your lips, and reach the sink in time to throw up a burning combination of alcohol and nerves. You stare blankly at the countertop and furiously brush your teeth simply because there's nothing left to do. You consider a shower but dismiss the idea immediately, the rush of hot water too much mediation to handle. Instead, you wash your face, comb your hair, shine your boots. One hour.

You stretch slowly, trying to quell your racing heart to no avail. You double and triple check the windows. Half an hour.

You reach the entrance hall and push the bookcase back to its place, straighten the rug, sweep the floor. The wind howls as you remove your beloved scarf with trembling hands, the house deathly still but for the light footfalls outside. The door swings open easily and you snatch up your sword.

He's here.

You barely register the blast of cold air the man brings with him, only the fact that his ordinarily gray eyes are now a brilliant green, so like Lithuania's that you realize he did it on purpose. It's a small thing for a being as powerful as he. Long, purposeful strides bring him within a few paces of you, and he bows, a disturbingly formal gesture.

"Vanya. My favorite." He smiles with pointed teeth, still pink from your last encounter.

You shudder at the memory but return the bow. "General." Your voice shakes and you raise your sword in a salute. No words, no challenges, just a single sweep of iron in the snow that twirls in through the still-open door.

General Winter nods solemnly and brings a nearly transparent rapier to his forehead, leaning against it for a moment before spinning it in a tight flourish, snowflakes eddying off the icy blade.

You attack immediately, not allowing him to take his customary step backwards. Your sword arcs over your head in a wild strike, and the General catches it easily, sidestepping and sending you stumbling for a moment. You use that momentum to launch yourself off the staircase, landing nose to nose with the personification of Winter. You note with some irritation that he's still several centimeters taller than you and, sword momentarily forgotten, you slam your forehead into his nose, drawing a cry of pain from the other man. You can feel his dark, heavy blood coursing down your face and into your mouth.

The taste isn't blood.

It's death and darkness, frozen soil and cinders, damp wool and kerosene. You double over gagging and spit out what you can. The rest slithers down you throat and you continue retching and gasping.

By this time, the General has recovered fully, a smudge of brown on his chin the only sign that you ever wounded him. He stares evenly at your hunched form, and smirks at your reaction to his blood. You pick your sword up from where is has fallen and lunge once again, a careful strike this time, aimed low on his stomach. He swats you away and ripostes. You block the strike with nothing but luck and mentally berate yourself. You're better than this.

Angrily, you launch into a series of sweeps at his legs which the taller man easily dances away from. He seems to find your efforts entertaining and makes no move to strike against you, allowing you a moment to rest.

You attack again before you've drawn a full breath, catching him by surprise and slicing neatly through the General's dark sleeve, causing him to reel backwards for a moment. You press forward and land a half dozen similar scratches across his arms and chest.

You almost have him pinned to the wall. Just a few steps… You stab towards his heart and he leaps backwards to avoid your hungry blade. He's against the wall now, and you close in for the killing strike. You stab at him once more and the man drops suddenly to the ground. Your sword plunges into the wall, carrying you with it, and the General leaps to his feet, twisting to face you. You wince at his sharp fingers knotting in your hair, flailing as he cracks your face against the plaster.

You give a single, gasping cry of surprise and pain, releasing your weapon to clutch at your shattered nose, tears blurring your vision. Furious, you wrench the blade from the wall, attempting a staggering lunge at your opponent. He parries indulgently, returning the favor with an almost leisurely swipe at your outthrust arm. You reel back, stumbling over your own feet, and the General chuckles at your clumsiness, reaching out a casual hand to help you to the floor.

Panicked, you struggle against the hand pinning you to the ground, but the General only grins, kneeling to straddle your thrashing form. You draw your knees to your chest, viciously kicking the older man in the stomach. He flies into the bookcase, volumes spilling onto the floor, and he chokes for a moment, hands wrapped around his abdomen.

You leap to your feet to grab your fallen sword, spinning to catch the General's descending blade before it cleaves your skull in two. You duck under his outstretched arm, slashing his back open with a two-handed strike. He falls to the ground with a snarl of pain and you raise your sword above your head, intending to bury it in his spine.

_I'm going to kill him_, you all but crow into the eerie silence. _I'm going to kill him… I'm going to be free… _

Unable to stop the near-hysterical giggle from escaping, your sword arcs down to finally end, end, end it.

_Free!_

The General glances up in momentary fear, horrified by the savage light in your eyes, and flings himself away from you. Unprepared for the sudden movement, you attempt to correct the blade's descent far too late, landing a sloppy cut across his now-bloody cloak, stumbling awkwardly over the man's prone figure. Taking advantage of your slip, he casts out a foot, tripping you and sending you tumbling to the ground.

You skid several feet in the patch of ice the General left in his wake, skinning both elbows and roll into the wall, gasping as your already abused nose collides with the heavy wood. The taller man recovers in an instant, scooping you up like a child and throwing you idly against the opposite wall.

You hear something _crack_ and curl protectively around your dislocated shoulder, howling with pain and frustration. The General's slow, measured steps drift across the room, and you curl tighter upon hearing him kneel at your side. A gloved hand settles on your head, mockingly gentle, and you cringe inwardly at the whine of fear that slips out.

The General chuckles slightly at your dread, running his fingers lazily down your twisted arm, indifferent to your pained expression. You feel the hand tighten around your shoulder and only have time to screw your eyes shut before he jerks your arm back into place.

Clapping your own hand over your mouth to belatedly stifle your cries of agony, you thrash mindlessly against the other man. In the corner of your hazy vision you spot his rapier lying forgotten and you lunge for the weapon, unwilling to accept defeat.

Surprised by your rapid actions, the General leaps back defensively, sliding away from the blade on instinct. He jumps to his feet just as your fingers close around the hilt of the sword and you feel a steel-toed boot press against your knuckles in a silent threat.

"Vanya… Do _not_ make me do this…" he warns.

Hissing with defiance, you glare up at the man, meeting his eyes with undisguised anger.

The General sighs apologetically, pressing on your hand until you're shrieking, bones grinding into unforgiving metal.

"Let _go_, Vanya," he hums, pitching his voice to be heard even through your steadily-escalating screams. You shake your head desperately, clenching your hand around the blade as tightly as the shattered bones will allow, latching your free hand around his boot.

The General stares down at you, lip curling into a sneer of disgust. He lifts his foot temporarily to shake you off, and you snatch your arm back, transferring the sword to your uninjured hand.

Any damage you may have done with the weapon is rendered impossible, as the same foot flies outward and kicks the blade from your grasp with an agonizing blow to the wrist.

Horrified, you watch the sword clatter across the floor, attention momentarily diverted from the man in front of you. Taking advantage of the distraction, the General flips you onto your back with a sigh, straddling you for the second time.

"_Relax_," he breathes, running his fingers through your sweat-drenched hair. You bring your hands up uselessly, trying to push him away, wanting, needing to _fight back, fight back… _

"Relax," he repeats, pinning your legs to the ground with one of his own, grinding an elbow into your solar plexus, causing you gasp sharply in pain, tears spilling down your cheeks.

General Winter leans forward onto your stomach and you can only sob harder, the edges of your vision darkening.

_Not yet, not yet, please, I can win, not yet…_

The too-gentle _shwick_ of metal on fabric startles you into movement, reaching up to twist your fingers in his collar, eyes wide with fear, pleading wordlessly.

"Stop that," he admonishes harshly, batting your hands away and gripping the back of your neck like an unruly dog. "If you didn't fight like this _every year_, maybe…" he trails off in thought, bringing the ornate dagger to your throat.

You feel your pulse hammering against the blade and stare up at the General, petrified, unable to _move, beg, scream, run, fight, anything, anything, just not yet, not, not, not, not yet… _

The slice of iron against your rigid throat breaks your trance completely, and you thrash backwards, cracking your head on the floor and _not caring_, because you're _away_, and…

An icy hand pulls you back by the hair, exposing your neck, and you can't stop the whine of pain that escapes as the blade slides deeper into the first cut. The knife buries itself across your throat, slashing your windpipe, blood arcing outwards and bubbling into your mouth. The air still trapped in your lungs forms a mindless scream, a gurgling, _pathetic_ sound that leaves blood pouring from your lips.

The General's feral grin is all you can see through the red trickling into your eyes, and you feel his hands cup across your neck. It's a surreal moment, watching the man's dark tongue lapping the blood, _your blood, _from his hands, and could you move, you'd knock his hands away in indignation.

Suddenly, there's no honor in your covenant. There is nothing sacred about the fingers digging curiously for your trachea, nothing holy in the way the room turns black and red, blood loss halting every feeling but pain.

General Winter leans forward, impossibly green eyes burning, and crushes his lips against your own, tongue sliding against your teeth, coating them in your own blood. You can no longer feel his power in that final seal, transferring ice and wind and horrific, twisted _safety_ into you.

Your hand twitches spastically, overwhelming cold nestling between your fingers as a familiar companion. The General's tongue seems warm against the chill blood congealing on the roof of your mouth, the scrap of heat suddenly foreign and intrusive. You want to push him away, scream at him to leave you to _your_ winter, anything but the brutal teeth against your bloodless lips.

You can't even summon the strength to look away.

He pulls his mouth away an eternity later, caressing your face with his too-warm hand, staring into your unfocused eyes. His mouth moves into some semblance of words, but you can't _breathe_, much less hear. Distantly, you feel the hand tip your head to the side and a sudden loss of _too much heat, too much_, indicating the man's departure.

The door swings on the breeze and your blood slows to a crawl, half-solid sludge on the floor, the walls, your face, but not _inside_ you. _He_ took it away, replaced it with frost, left you on the floor to float in some half-dead state.

Ivan is shuddering into the ice of non-existence, soul fleeing to the sunflowers.

Russia is the one whose heart beats hesitantly, the one who will survive this, the one who will look out to the red, red moon and _laugh_.

….So, uh… There we have it, ah? Happy Solstice, everyone. I wish you all a very merry Christmas. …And yeah. That's pretty much it. Feel free to drop a review. I promise to at least check out your profile in return.

Until next time!


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